You know what I hate? Writing. And you. I hate you a lot, but you pay me to write. And if you remember, I also hate writing. This puts me in quite a conundrum, as I really need money. I’m two months behind on rent, I ran out of gas in my car, and I’m eating animal grade tuna. I don’t know why you pay me for this, but I stopped caring. So I’ll give you a paragraph and get enough cash for a pack of cigarettes and people food.

I became a writer so I could be my own boss. Unfortunately, I’m a pretty crappy boss. The fact that I rarely work is probably the least of my innumerable and debilitating leadership dis-qualities. My laptop works for about 12 minutes, while plugged in, then runs out of batteries. It is slower than an opium addled sloth and functions slightly better than FDR’s legs. My mild alcoholism doesn’t react well with my bitter an eeyore –esqe personality, but it keeps me grounded. At home. On the floor. But if I’m on the couch hung over at least I’m not writing which is, as my Elmer glue filled joints will attest, the death of me which takes more years off my life than any bender I can afford. When I write the money hits me like hot leather seat on my thighs, comforting at first but never worth the pain. Usually it gets deposited in the Super Cheeps liquor store down the block. They started double knotting the bag they put it in so I wouldn’t keep drinking in the parking lot. 40 ouncers and me and public don’t mix well. Me and public don’t mix well, but the malt liquor adds an edge, an edge that usually involves my fighting with skateboarders, yelling at cops, or falling asleep on top of other people cars. So I come home with half my salary in a few plastic bags, stare at the dark tv that hasn’t had cable in years, and start drinking my way into a place that I’m finally relaxed. Unfortunately I’m blacked out, so I don’t remember much about the place. But that’s still better than the dump I live in. I used to have a dog, but he ran off in the park one day. Or maybe that was my wife. They run off together? No, one of them was hit by a van. It was a long time ago. I’m not callous, just happened a long time ago. And I’m drunk. Drunk. At least a quarter of the first bag drunk. I don’t drink absinthe. My liver starts talking with me when I drink absinthe. And it only ever wants to talk politics. I don’t mind talking politics, but my liver is a real jerk and just yells at me about socializing the dance clubs and the speaker’s job in the senate. I used to watch C-Span. Bunch of ugly people running the country. We need more hot senators. Then more people would watch c-span. Politics should be more like telemundo. I don’t get telemundo, but my Cuban neighbors do, now I can count to five in Spanish and know the word for goal is the same as in English. At least it’s pronounced the same. Soccer is a funny game, funny in that if you watch it drunk enough it doesn’t make you depressed. Basketball and football and hockey are depressing. Bunch of rich buff people who endorse toxic coffee and bubble gum. But soccer players are just trying to win so their home town doesn’t riot. I hate the taste of my mouth after waking up from being blacked out. I once drank ajax thinking it was powdered coffee. I don’t remember why drinking powdered coffee seemed like a good idea, but at least I didn’t pour boiling water in my mouth. But I think the ajax made my teeth into wax. They keep moving. I didn’t want to become a writer, but I can write with my eyes closed. So I didn’t have to look at the other kids looking back at me, mother staring and seeing I wasn’t going to make it. Didn’t have to see my dad throwing the television into the pool when he got fired. Which, by the way, when you throw a tv in the pool it doesn’t work afterwards. Didn’t see the fire started by my old neighbor’s kid. Ex neighbors. Ex kid. But I heard it all. And I can’t write what I heard, though those sounds are clear as vision now. Still my memories in sound don’t include the dirty carpet I sleep on, can’t translate the pounding of base guitar into words. Pounding. Base guitars don’t pound. I pound. The dog pound. The dog found Jack and Jill rolling down a hill. I met them once. Nice people. Got married and own a ranch in Montana. Read about their ranch. No animals, only corn. Corn can’t bite you. Hope it can’t bite you. Haven’t ever seen live corn. On the stalk, maybe it bites. What the hell do I know.